


The Marks We Bear

by Jay Auris (nighthawkms)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Anxiety, Body Dysphoria, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mirror Sex, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Scars, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 04:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21220574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nighthawkms/pseuds/Jay%20Auris
Summary: Some visible (and not so visible) scars remain as Eddie picks up his life and tries to move forward.





	The Marks We Bear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Actually_Crowley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Actually_Crowley/gifts).

> So my good buddy Crowley hit me with this prompt of "Eddie is self-conscious about the scars he collected in Derry, and Richie makes him feel better about them." It kind of snowballed from there. Thanks for the prompt and the quick beta, Crowley <3

It takes a month for Eddie to get out of the hospital, during which time he learns 3 things: a) the food served to patients at Derry General is just as unpalatable as it was 27 years ago, b) you pretty much lose all sense of shame about nudity when you shit in a bedpan for three weeks, and c) Richie Tozier is shockingly good at spades, and poker, and gin rummy, and go fish. Somehow, he still knows all of Eddie's tells, and refuses to explain what they are. _And give up my advantage? Fuck no, Eddie Spaghetti, now quit your bitching and deal the UNO cards like a man._

It takes a week of Eddie being back in New York and Myra's overbearing protectiveness to make him snap, pack his bags, tell Myra she'll be hearing from his lawyer, and walk out the door. He gets a hotel room in Midtown, right near his job, texts the group chat _I'm getting a divorce_, and by the time he gets out of the shower, there are 30 new messages in the chat. The first one, from Richie, is five of those little party popper emojis. The next one, from Bev, says _I'm so proud of you, and I'm here if you need to talk_, and he has to take a minute to compose himself, because out of all of them, she understands the most what he's going through, breaking free from a shadow of abuse that's haunted his whole life.

Three days later, Eddie's PCP confirms that the stab wound in his cheek has fully closed, and he can leave it uncovered to heal the rest of the way. When he removes the bandage that evening, the ugly red line that he's been seeing in the bathroom mirror for the last five weeks doesn't seem any less ugly after the news from his doctor. But he's never in his life not followed the advice of a doctor, so he squares his shoulders and is resolute that he won't let this bother him.

It takes twenty-four hours for that resolve to break. Twenty-four hours of dozens of eyes darting towards him and then away, a cashier sucking her teeth and saying, "oof, that looks like it hurt," and one subway ride with three teenagers whispering at the back of the car, giggling under their breaths and jerking their arms and chins in motions towards him, as Eddie sits straight-spined, cheeks flushing pink with embarrassment.

He stares at himself in the bathroom mirror that night, looking at the jagged red line.

They hadn't had time to go to the clinic, and Ben had done the best he could with the emergency sewing kit in Bev's luggage; Eddie bit down on a cloth to protect his teeth and muffle his screams as he held Richie's fingers so tight in his grip he thought he might break them. Six amateur stitches stayed in his cheek through the sewers, through the hole in his chest, through his friends carrying his half-dead body out of Neibolt, through the emergency eighteen-hour surgery. Eddie couldn't blame the doctors for not worrying about his cheek; they were more focused on making sure his spine wasn't severed and all his internal organs were miraculously intact and not leaking fluids into his chest cavity. 

By the time Eddie woke up from the medically induced coma four days later, with Richie's sleeping head resting on his knee, the stitches had been replaced with clean, medical grade string, but the damage was done.

Eddie twists his head to the side, feeling along the puckered scar that rises off his once smooth cheek. He's always been vain about his looks, ever since puberty hit and every man, woman and gender non-conforming person in a fifty-mile radius seemed to give him a second glance. He eats well, exercises regularly, and has a standing appointment with his barber every six weeks. Just like his living space, Eddie tries to keep his body clean, spotless. 

This scar, it's a fracture in his carefully built image.

The damage that hides beneath his clothes is worse. The wound is no longer open, but dozens of stitches cross his lower abdomen, pulling the ragged skin back together. It will be at least another month, maybe longer, before they'll remove the stitches, but Eddie can already tell how the starburst scar will heal into branching lines across the whole of his abdomen. His stomach looks like a concrete wall that Clark Kent took a swing at. He tries to ignore it, other than the twice daily he changes the bandage wrap, but every time he shifts his body, he can feel the pull of the mottled skin, the soft fibers of the bandage rubbing over the places where his torn apart body works frantically to knit him back together.

Still, at least no one else can see those, and if Eddie has anything to say about it, no one else besides his doctors will for a very long time. Maybe ever. The cheek wound is a different story.

Surely, Eddie thinks, it couldn't hurt to leave the bandage on his cheek a little longer. Just to be safe. Even if the doctor said the wound was closed, well, doctors are wrong sometimes. Yeah, Eddie’s just analyzing the risk, and his conclusion is that nobody needs to see him like this. Just for a few more weeks. 

It's fine. _He's_ fine. He'll get over this soon enough.

~

Four months later, when Richie shows up on his doorstep - dripping wet from a thunderstorm's downpour and babbling about being an idiot, how he should've stopped being a coward the moment Eddie woke up in the hospital, but he's here now, and he can't go another day without telling Eddie he loves him, like, really, _really_ loves him - Eddie's cheek is still bandaged.

Confessions of love and passionate first kiss out of the way, they land on the couch, making out like teenagers on Eddie's newly purchased apartment furniture before Richie seems to notice it.

"Hey, hey, hold on," Richie says, pulling back. He reaches up and gently touches the bandage. Eddie winces, trying not to flinch away. "You're still healing? Hasn't it been like six fucking months? Do stab wounds really take that long to heal?"

"I mean- well- the thing is-" Eddie stammers, then sighs. "Fuck. Yeah, it's healed. I just hate looking at it."

"Oh," Richie says.

"Oh? That's what you say when the guy you're making out with decides to be emotionally vulnerable? _Oh_?"

"I'm a man of few words, Eddie Spaghetti. I like to apply them judiciously."

"That's the biggest load of shit I've ever heard."

"Hey, hold on," Richie says, catching Eddie's wrist as he tries to crawl out of Richie's lap. If Richie's going to make fun of him for this, Eddie can't- he _won't_ just let himself get walked all over again. Not even by Richie. But instead, Richie surprises him and asks, "Can I see it?"

Eddie scowls. "What? No, why the fuck would you even want to!"

"Why do you think, Eds?" Richie smiles. He draws Eddie's hand to his lips and sucks two fingers into his mouth. Oh, that's just fucking _unfair_. When he pulls off with a popping sound, Eddie shivers. Richie continues: "Men with scars are _hot_."

"Bullshit."

"Come on. You gotta rip the band-aid off sometime, pun intended. Please?"

Eddie sighs. "Fine," he says, folding his arms. "If you insist."

He waits, eyes cast down, as Richie gently peels away the medical tape from his cheek. There's a moment of silence, and then a thumb tracing across the raised red line, almost caressing. Far too gentle, too careful. Eddie hates it.

"See?" Eddie mutters. "It's ugly as shit."

"Looks like it healed well," Richie says. "Honestly, kinda makes you look like a badass."

"Yeah, sure."

"Dude, I mean it. If I saw a guy like this walking down the street, I'd assume they were in a war or fought off a mugger with their bare hands or something."

"Don't patronize me, Richie," Eddie insists. "I'm not winning any beauty contests anytime soon."

Richie cups Eddie's jaw and twists it to the side, leaning up to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss over the scar, his tongue darting out to trace the line. Eddie shudders; it's not like the skin is more sensitive than any other part of his body, but God, did that feel _nice_. Nothing about that spot on his body has felt nice for a long time.

"Eds," Richie murmurs in his ear. "If you haven't noticed by now, I think you're hot as shit and I need in your pants like _yesterday_, scar or no scar. So, bedroom?" He dips his head down and sucks a biting bruise into the jut of Eddie's neck.

"_Yesyesyesyesyes_," Eddie pants, dragging him off the couch.

Eddie's hesitance comes back when they get to the bedroom and he winds up on his back, Richie looming over him on the bed, kissing him deeply, fingers sliding up his chest to play with the top button of Eddie's shirt. Richie flicks open the button, and all the alarm bells start blaring in Eddie's brain.

"Wait," Eddie says, catching Richie's hands. "Could- could we just keep this on?"

"Told you, Eds," Richie says, trying to tug out of Eddie's grip. "I don't care what it looks like."

"But _I do_," Eddie says. "And I'm not ready yet. I just wanna enjoy this with you, not worry about my fucking neuroses like some vain twink. Gimmie a little time."

Richie looks at him quietly for a long moment - frankly, Eddie is shocked he's capable of staying silent this long, it must be a record - and after a tense three seconds that feel like three hours, he nods.

"Okay," Richie says, sliding his hands down to work on the button of Eddie's slacks instead. "Let me know when you're ready."

~

Richie’s patience lasts four more weeks. Four weeks of hot showers that Eddie insists on taking alone, steaming up the mirror so that he can quickly shove his clothes on and cover everything before the steam fades. Four weeks of Eddie keeping his hood up whenever they leave the apartment, claiming the cold January winds hurt his face, a scarf bundled around his cheeks for good measure. Four weeks of Richie's advancing hands halted, of Eddie meticulously making sure his shirts stay on no matter what they do (and they do quite a bit), until Richie can't take it.

"I think you need to go see a therapist," Richie says over breakfast one morning.

"Fuck all the way off," Eddie says, pouring his Raisin Bran. "Five minutes telling a shrink my story and she'll have me committed."

"You don't have to tell them how you got hurt," Richie points out. "But Eds, you won't even look at yourself. You won't let me touch anything that's not wrapped in two layers, you won't go out without covering your face, and I know you're wearing makeup at work and taking it off when you get home; I'm not stupid, Eds, I've had girlfriends with body image issues, I know the signs. It's not normal."

Look at the expert over here, Eddie thinks, his grip tightening around the handle of his spoon. So what if Eddie spends at least half an hour every morning in the bathroom in the lobby of his building, carefully applying concealer and foundation because if his coworkers give him a single look of pity, he's done for? So what? "Oh, and you know what normal is?” Eddie snarks. “Mr. 'I-can't-say-anything-genuine-to-people-I-care-about-without-making-it-a-joke'? Richie 'I've-repressed-my-gay-love-for-you-for-thirty-years' Tozier is a good judge of what's normal?"

"You're lashing out because you're afraid I'm right," Richie points out. "You won't deal with the pain you're feeling because you think if you pretend you're okay you will be."

Eddie scoffs. "You sound like a fucking therapist."

"Maybe that's because I actually _see_ one now," Richie snaps.

"Since when?"

"Since I was a fucking mess after Derry! Since I thought I was going to have to watch the love of my life die in front of me! Since I didn't tell him that for another six fucking months!"

"You never told me that!"

"Yeah, well, you never _asked_. You've been wrapped up in your own fucking head for six months. You can be pretty fucking selfish when you wanna be."

"I almost died! That's pretty fucking traumatic!"

"You're not the only one who got hurt in Derry, Eddie!" Richie yells, banding his fist on the table as his voice rises in anger.

It’s shocking and it throws Eddie for a loop, because the whole month he's been here, Richie's never raised his voice, never expressed any frustration or pain or need for comfort. All of his attention has been on making sure Eddie feels good, but of course, those feelings have been there, under the surface. Eddie can see it in the tension of Richie's spine, his curled fists, the furrowed knit of his brow. The anger and frustration, they’ve always been there, but Eddie hasn’t bothered to see it.

Eddie can't handle this right now. He's too mad, too hurt and if they continue this, he'll just take that out on Richie.

"Well, congratulations to you," he says, standing up and grabbing his work laptop. "You finally showed some fucking emotional maturity for once. Now try this on for size: mind your own fucking business!"

All he can think about is his own anger, his hurt, and it drives Eddie stomping out the door. By the time he's cooling off on the subway, he realizes he forgot to wear a coat with a hood or bring a scarf. No way to cover his face now. Fuck, are people staring at him? That woman in the corner is laughing, is she just listening to a funny podcast or does she find him hilarious? That mother just shushed her young child who's looking in Eddie's direction, did he say something about Eddie's face?

An icy prickle crawls up his spine, and he gropes for an inhaler that doesn't exist anymore as his breathing starts up. He crams his eyes shut, trying to force his lungs to take air in and out, in and out, but all he can think about is the way Richie's face looked as he left; pained, hurt, betrayed, even. Fuck. He fucked everything up, didn't he? Richie's gonna hate him, gonna get back on a plane and leave and Eddie will be alone again, and what will Eddie do then? Nobody will want him, nobody's ever loved him in the way Richie has. And he doesn't want anybody else anyway, _fuck fuck FUCK_-

Eddie's a nervous wreck by the time he gets to his office, so much so that his boss takes one look at him and tells him he needs to go home before he passes out in front of the clients.

But Eddie can't go back outside, can't make himself walk out the door. So, when he gets to the lobby, he sits down on the bench near the elevator and leans forward, dry heaving while the security guards at the front desk watch him curiously.

Staying inside a place he knows well feels safer than going back out there, where everyone can look and stare and _notice_\- and as much as Eddie used to crave being noticed, it was only because he wanted to belong. Doesn’t everybody?

The problem is, he _works_ here, he has to come back here every day, walk past the same people. If they notice now, he won’t belong, he’ll just be the weird twitchy guy with half of a Joker smile, something to gawk at every morning. Even if he wears a hood and a scarf, they’ll know it’s him, and sometimes they’ll catch a glance of his face and go home to their husband or wife and say _he’s so ugly, how could anyone that hideous keep showing their face outside, how could anyone love that?_ And they’ll be right, because Richie will be _gone_ and Eddie will be _alone_ and-

"Eddie?"

A pair of familiar brown boots enter his line of sight. Eddie blinks, trying to comprehend how that’s possible, since he’s at work and Richie’s boots shouldn’t be at _work_-

"Eds, I brought the car, come on," Richie says softly. 

Oh. Someone called his emergency contact, who he changed to Richie two weeks ago. Jesus, how long has been sitting here?

Richie is silent as he drives them home, Eddie curled up in the passenger seat. Normally, Eddie can read Richie's expression, but his face is unnervingly neutral; lips a thin, flat line, eyes focused straight ahead on the road. Several times, Eddie opens his mouth to speak, but then closes it, because what can he say? He doesn't know who's in the right and who's in the wrong, and what if what he says makes it worse?

Richie pulls into the parking garage near the apartment and turns off the car. Then he reaches into the backseat and produces a scarf, holding it out to Eddie.

“Why?” Eddie asks, dumbfounded. Eddie's apartment is only two blocks from the parking garage he rents space in. Just a short walk. And it’s not even that cold out today.

“So, you can cover up,” Richie explains. “I saw it hanging on the coat rack, so I knew you hadn’t taken it, and I _know_ how you get.”

It's such a small gesture - just a reminder that Richie might not understand what's going on with him but is going to do his damnedest to help - but Eddie's never had someone worry about him in such a _healthy_ way. Truly, genuinely worried for Eddie's sake, not to satisfy their own selfish, overbearing need.

Just a scarf, but it's amazing how something so small can feel like the kindest, grandest gift in the world. 

It's grand enough to make Eddie lean over the console and kiss Richie fiercely, possessively, hungrily. It's grand enough to send them rushing back to the apartment, shutting the door and tearing clothes asunder before they land in bed and spend the next two hours doing everything a bed is made for besides sleeping. And it's grand enough that, after, Eddie rests his cheek on Richie's chest, looking up into his sex-softened, serene expression, and mumbles, "Maybe I should see someone."

"Only if you want to, baby," Richie says, stroking his hair. "Not for my sake."

"No, I want to,” Eddie replies. “For our sake.”

~

A week later, Eddie sits across from Dr. Mazal, nervously describing his symptoms to the woman, who, after his assessment has been completed, keeps her voice low, calm, as she explains that he seems to qualify for a particular kind of body dysmorphic disorder, and how he might benefit from talking about it in session and trying some exposure therapy. That phrase - _exposure - _makes the air swoosh out of his lungs until she explains it's not quite as scary as those TV shows about phobias make it seem. And maybe, since Eddie keeps talking about this lovely boyfriend he has who wants Eddie to get better, this boyfriend can help?

Eddie goes home and explains it all to Richie, face buried in Richie's chest because this is fucking embarrassing - he's forty goddamn years old and acting like a teenage girl preoccupied with her acne or some shit, he should be able to handle a few damn scars - while Richie _hmmms_ and _mhmmms_ and acts way too understanding, _who even is he?_

Of course, Richie being Richie, it only takes him three days to hear the words "ways to get me more comfortable looking at my body" and turn it into a sex thing. This is how they end up sitting on Eddie's bed, Richie's back against the headboard, while Eddie leans back against his chest, staring at the floor-length mirror Richie has propped up against the wall.

"I don't like this," Eddie says, swallowing when Richie kisses the back of his neck. "This is too much."

"You know, I took a psych class back in undergrad," Richie says, and Eddie watches in the mirror as his fingers slip under the hem of Eddie's shirt. "This dude, Pavlov, got freaky with a bell and some dogs, and boom, creates this whole theory of behavior. So, I'm thinking we try and reproduce some of his results."

"You're gonna fuck my disorder outta me?" Eddie questions. Richie's dick is distractingly hard against Eddie's lower back. He wants to turn over, wants to just tug Richie's pants down and take him down his throat so he doesn't have to see that jagged red line in the mirror, or the mottled scar tissue that appears as Richie rucks Eddie's shirt up higher. He squirms, tries to roll, but Richie wraps both arms around his chest, holding him firm until he settles down.

"More like, we're gonna get frisky while you watch so you can see just how sexy you look," Richie responds, his voice dropping into a low growl as he says, "you're always so hot squirming in my grip, babe."

"Jesus, Richie," Eddie groans, dropping his head back to look at this ceiling. "Can you just fuck me already? This is stupid."

Richie gently grips the back of Eddie's head and pushes it forward until he's again looking at himself in the mirror. "Just give it a try, Eds. What's the worst that could happen?"

"Hyperventilation, a panic attack, uncontrollable crying-"

"You know, when I was making sweet, sweet love to your mother-"

"_Richie!_"

"I'm just saying, Kaspbraks always look good doin' it."

"Why do I ever let you touch me- _oh,_" Eddie groans, as Richie's hand makes its final approach, sliding beneath the fabric and hitting its intended target.

"Probably because I can make you sound like that," Richie smirks, looking smug in the mirror's reflection. "Now take your pants off."

Richie lets go of him long enough to let Eddie wriggle out of his boxers and slacks, leaving him bare below the waist but still covered by a T-shirt. This is usually the limit for him, which has been a bitch because he always overheats and Richie has to turn the overhead fan on and the T-shirt fabric clings and gets in the way when they're fumbling around, but he can't- he just can't look at himself. He has this image from before in his head, and he wants to preserve it as long as possible. Pretend it still exists. Ignore the reality of what's underneath.

Richie, apparently, is not having that tonight. He gets his hands back on Eddie immediately, and Eddie has to admit it looks pretty hot, watching their reflections as Richie looms over him, his big arm coming around so he can grasp Eddie's cock, holding him close and jerking him slowly, far too fucking slowly. Eddie whines and bucks up into Richie's hand. God, they've barely begun, and he already looks half wrecked with hair askew and hands scrabbling at Richie's thighs, tongue dipping between his lips. That ugly red line doesn't look quite so prominent when Eddie’s cheeks are just as red.

"Gorgeous," Richie murmurs. "Fuck, Eddie, think I'm discovering some new kinks tonight."

The fingers on Richie's other hand (the one not currently polishing Eddie's knob like Mr. Clean) skim across the hem of Eddie's shirt and begin to curl around it, sliding it up.

It's like a cold shower for Eddie's arousal; instantly, he grabs the hem and yanks it down. "Fucking _no_, Richie!"

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," Richie says, letting go of the shirt. "Baby steps, I guess. Can I touch you under there at least? I've been dying to."

"...I can't do both," Eddie says. "I can't watch myself while you do that. Let me lie down, and you can."

"Okay. You're doing a good job, baby," Richie says as Eddie lies back. He straddles Eddie, kissing him thoroughly before sliding down his body. "I'm gonna give you a reward. Just close your eyes and think of England."

Eddie snorts, but closing his eyes sounds like a good idea, so he does, and lets his arms fall back to curl around his head. That only lasts for a few seconds, because pretty soon his hands are clawing at the sheets and Richie's mop of hair as Richie swallows him down to the root.

The sensation is so intense, that he only vaguely registers Richie's hand sliding beneath the hem of his shirt. This time it's not so scary to let him do it, let him trail his fingers up Eddie's stomach until his thumb brushes the tail end of the largest scar, and keeps going, tracing up the scar tissue. Eddie whimpers as Richie swirls his tongue around Eddie and slides his fingers back down the scar at the same time; it's a weird feeling and Eddie's not sure if he likes it.

Richie does it a few more times before Eddie says "I'm at my limit, Rich," nudging him in the head, Immediately, Richie slides his hands back out, but continues to suck Eddie off, not stopping until Eddie's spine is arching back and his toes are curling and he's shooting his load straight down Richie's throat. Eddie returns the favor, letting Richie straddle his shoulders and fuck into his mouth because cleanup is a bitch otherwise. 

When they're done, they lie back in sweaty repose, and Richie curls on his side, watching Eddie curiously.

"How do you feel?" Richie asks.

"I'm not sure," Eddie admits. "It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. But I don't think sex is going to just fix everything."

"No duh, Eds. Any working prostitute could tell you that." Richie scoots closer, reaching out to cup Eddie's jaw, thumb again sliding across the scarred skin. "I just wanted to remind you that you're a goddamn catch and whatever you think of yourself, it's not going to stop me from wanting to jump you at any opportunity."

Eddie rolls his eyes. "Way to turn my mental health into a story about your dick, Richie."

"That's why I book sold-out comedy shows, _bay-bee_," Richie purrs, winking at him. "My dick is like ninety percent of my material. Probably ninety percent of why you put up with me too."

"That's a low-ball," Eddie teases. "It sure isn't your personality."

"Like mother, like son," Richie quips. Eddie lets out a furious yell and grabs a pillow, initiating the start of a fight that ends with them lying side by side, panting and picking down feathers out of their hair.

"Richie?" Eddie asks.

"Yeah?" Richie answers.

"Thanks for trying to help. I care more that you tried than about whether it worked."

"I'll keep doing it as long as you need me to, Eds. Promise."

"I don't regret it," Eddie says, rolling over and pressing his chin into Richie's chest. "If I hadn't tried to save you, I wouldn't have gotten hurt, but I might've lost you. I'd rather look like Ryan Reynolds in that weird comic book movie than not have you in my life."

"Eds..." Richie is sniffling, and maybe actually crying; hah, _loser_ (said with affection). "Your honesty is touching but you kind of ruined the moment by not knowing who Wade Wilson is. I'm revoking your nerd card, that's pathetic."

"Hey, fuck off!" Eddie says, biting back a grin. "I stopped reading comics after I moved away. You were always the one more obsessed with that shit; I just wanted something to share with you."

Richie smiles delightedly. "You're shitting me. Eds! That's so fucking cute, I'm going to get diabetes from all the sweetness you're shoving down my throat."

Eddie glares at him. "I'm never being nice to you ever again. You don't deserve it."

"Is that a threat? Perhaps, a _sexy_ threat? I'm up for trying verbal humiliation in the sack. You really are your mother's-"

"Say one more thing about my _very dead mother_ in bed and you'll be sleeping on the couch for the next month."

Richie holds his hands up. "Noted."

~

And it doesn't fix everything. Of course not. Love isn't a magic pill that makes all your problems and neuroses and anxieties and doubts go away.

But the next time Eddie sees himself in the mirror, he stops, and really lets himself look, lets himself slot this new image of himself into his mind. Because this is who he is now, and going back isn't possible, so there's no way to move but forward. 

Forward is the rest of his life: his memories restored, his friends returned. Forward means Richie by his side, scars and all.

And for the first time in a while, when Eddie looks at himself, he smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Eddie suffers from anxiety issues and a form of body dysmorphic disorder in this fic, and I have tried to show how these symptoms would manifest this to the best of my ability. Still, my knowledge is limited, so any mistakes or misinterpretations of the disorders are unintentional. I'm always open to gentle critique, dear readers :)
> 
> Find me on tumblr and twitter @nighthawkms


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